


With Your Permission

by just_a_dram



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/M, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Rhaegar Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-25 21:26:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15649242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_a_dram/pseuds/just_a_dram
Summary: They have nothing to say to each other--Jon and his new wife--and there's the cold and the thin bedroll and a small company of men preventing them from doing the things Jon would prefer to talking.





	With Your Permission

**Author's Note:**

  * For [it_was_so_human](https://archiveofourown.org/users/it_was_so_human/gifts).



> Written in thanks for a charitable donation to fight Nazis. Prompt: salty!teens universe.
> 
> This takes place between the 3rd and 4th chapter of [What a Disappointment](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4519881/chapters/10281747). There is one other drabble I wrote for a prompter that is a part of this universe, which can be found [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/246491/chapters/11889278).

They run out of things to say two days into their ride for Queenscrown. If it wasn’t for Sansa’s pleasantries, they would have run out much sooner than that, and as the silence stretches between them, Jon finds himself urging his horse forward, away from his new bride, who sits her horse well enough, but is not much of a rider. Anything to escape her pointed looks.

Distance only works to some extent. Even with his back to her, he can feel her glare, urging him to say something, anything. There’s only so much you can say about the weather here in the North and they ran out of road after the first day’s travel, so there’s nothing to comment on there. Unfortunately for Sansa, that’s the extent of his ability to speak with a woman with whom he shares no history or interests.

So long as he has a horse beneath him or a sword in his hands, he is content being quiet, and at the end of a day’s ride, when they sit before a campfire with muscles that ache from the saddle, he’s even happier to stare blankly into the dancing flames. As an inexperienced horsewoman, Sansa must be wearier than any of the five men who accompany them on their trip, but she does not betray it, sitting straight backed upon a folding campstool, feet pulled primly underneath herself, crossed at the ankles.

He may not know her well, but it is evident from her sighs that tired or not, Sansa would prefer conversation. Without a female companion, Jon is the logical one to provide it and he runs through several potential openings before rejecting each of them in turn with a frown and scrape of his spoon over his tin plate, chasing what is left of the thin rabbit stew.

She must think him excessively stupid.

This is the time of night when his brother—or more mortifyingly yet, his father—would have produced a harp and sung for the company. It’s the kind of thing Jon imagines Sansa would find pleasing, but he has no such skill, not for strumming or song or story. The best he can offer her is a lopsided grimace, when her blue eyes look through downcast lashes at him, as he tears into a crusty hunk of bread with his eyeteeth.

“Still hungry?” he asks, gesturing with what remains of his bread at the half loaf wrapped in linen beside the two wineskins left out for tonight’s consumption.

He’s spoken with his mouth full, he realizes, as he pulls back his hand and drags the back of his wrist across his lips. Though raised in a palace, his fingers feel thick and his manners as coarse as a crofter with her watching his every move.

Her nose wrinkles. “No thank you.”

The loaf is stale, but it will only get staler as they push towards what will be their home.

“Suit yourself,” he says with a sniff.

Her fur draped breast rises with her inhale. “If it pleases you, lord husband, I will retire for the evening.”

Jon watches with a sidelong glance as she sets her plate to the side and stands to leave him to his sulk. If only she _would_ leave. With the tent’s walls between them, he might escape her censorious observation for the first time today. Once on her feet, however, she merely stands beside him, staring at the top of his head with her dove grey gloved hands clasped before her. With several pair of eyes upon him, it takes him an eternity to realize she’s seeking his permission.

He gives it with a throat clearing nod, and he doesn’t miss the roll of her eyes as she steps over his outstretched muddy boot. The canvas flap of their tent closes behind her, and one of Ned Stark’s men coughs into his fist to obscure a deep laugh. Two more shift in their seats and raise cups to cover their faces.

Northerners are not as deferential of their superiors as Southroners, and while Jon is accustomed to being the least important member of the royal family, it stings to be laughed at by men who should respect his command. No one on this journey is impressed by him, which makes his wife having gone to bed less of a relief than Jon imagined it would be. Instead, as an owl calls out to mark its territory, he is left in the company of men trying to hide their amusement at his lack of ease with his own wife.

Not two minutes pass before he follows her example, putting his plate down and finding his feet. Their meager attempt to contain their mirth is put aside, when he says goodnight, and the quiet of the night gives way to the roar of men’s laughter.

“You might have gone straight to bed.”

“None would have blamed you, Lord Snow.”

Heat creeps up his neck to flame his cheeks. This is the sort of lack of confidence in commanding men that his father found disappointing. Sansa will have heard from inside the tent and nothing about it will impress her either.

Squaring his shoulders, he glowers at the group of them. “Be ready at dawn. Horses watered and fed. I want a prompt start.”

Only the grey haired one stops grinning over his cup to nod, but it will have to do. He doesn’t wait for his veil of self-assurance to visibly flag before shoving the tent flap aside, trading the shadowy night sky for the tent’s yet darker atmosphere. She’s there on their bedroll, her outline sharpening as his eyes adjust.

With her hair still in a braid that falls over her shoulder and knees pulled up to her chest, she looks as unsure as he feels and younger than the girls her age at the capital. That’s the sort of assessment he knows to keep to himself at least.

“They were making japes at our expense,” she says, wrapping her arms around her shins.

“At mine,” Jon corrects, as he sheds his sword belt, scabbard, and sword, piling them on the ground beside the campstool he collapses on to pull off his boots. The right one wants to stick and he jerks hard. If they had been laughing at Sansa, Jon doesn’t know what he would have said, but it pricks his temper to consider it.

As he shrugs out of his fur, she lies flat and turns her eyes towards the peak of the tent. She won’t look again until he’s joined her on the bedroll, and even then, she waits until he’s drawn the heavy black bear fur over them both, adjusted his pillow, and stretched his stiff arms over his head.

The men’s voices have grown faint, either headed for the limited comfort of their bedrolls or too intoxicated to keep up their chatter, and in the ensuing quiet, Jon can hear Sansa’s soft breathing. After watching him so assiduously all day, her carefully schooled upward focus makes him want to wrap an arm around her and tug her into his chest. It’s contrary, but while he dreads her eyes upon him during waking hours, he would be glad of her attention now.

He’s had some success in the furs, when his cock is inside of her and his tongue says what it will without tortured forethought. She doesn’t hate everything he murmurs against her neck if the quick pant of her breath and bite of her nails can be taken as proof.

He wouldn’t mind more such opportunities. That’s what the men assumed he was scurrying off for anyway.

It wasn’t, though it’s never far from his mind. He’s as bad as his father after all, he supposes.

No, not his father come again, for he won’t take what isn’t freely offered. Sansa is the check on his constant desiring of her. Last night when he went to kiss her, she pushed his hand away and rolled onto her side, putting her back to him. Jon has no hope for it being any different tonight, and if she does not want him, he has no interest in convincing her otherwise.

She won’t want him. Either she’s too cold in this tent or too uncomfortable or thinks the men will hear or is too unhappy with him or did not like when last he bedded her. It could be any or all of those things.

Her gentle voice interrupts his litany of self-doubt. “I’m sorry I can’t keep up.”

They’re so close in the bedroll that when Jon shifts to see her better, he bumps her rounded hip, He knows what that hip feels like under the pressure of his fingers, and his stomach gives a low tug he does his best to ignore.

“What’s this?”

“Arya is a better rider than I. I’m slowing us down.”

While they could travel faster without her, it is Jon who has put distance between his steed and Sansa’s, not her lack of skill.

He can’t recall Sansa ever admitting to a fault, though she has apologized sweetly for any number of perceived transgressions as a matter of courtesy. It’s impossible to enjoy this moment, however, when it should be him apologizing.

“You’re a fine rider.”

Before coming to bed, he loosened the ties at the neck of his shift, and her eyes dart from the hanging strings and then back up, as her tongue tests her slightly wind-chapped lower lip. “Are the ladies in the South skilled riders?”

“Some.”

“Your sister?”

“Yes.” He lifts a hand to his stubbled chin and rubs. “But never mind the pace. Any faster and the horses would tire. I’ll stay by your side tomorrow.”

Her lips twitch up at the corners and then purse. “You’re staring, lord husband.”

“You’ve been staring all day.”

A fine crease forms between her arched brows. “I wish you had shaved.”

There’s no chance to absorb her chastisement before she cups his cheek and cranes her head to press her mouth to his. It’s a soft, closed mouth thing that lingers for only a moment, but it’s daring coming from his very proper wife. That daring tightens something in his chest as surely as the brush of her tongue against the seam of his mouth begging entrance might.

She’s unpracticed, innocent, and so lovely that it still feels impossible that she is his. Aegon swore Northern girls looked half horse. Aegon was wrong. His brother would envy him his bride if ever he saw her. What’s more, when she dares to kiss him with eyes screwed shut tight, he is the first to earn this boldness. Everything she gives is his alone, and Jon has had very little that belonged solely to him.

She’s already drawn back, retreating into passivity with eyes lowered, when he presses his brow to hers and closes his hand over her shoulder. “Can you keep very quiet, Sansa?”

The men have already had their fun, but he’d rather not add to it on the morrow with a loud performance tonight.

She toes his leg beneath the furs. It’s just a nudge of woolen toes over the rise of his calf, as she still wears her stockings against the cold, but his cock jumps at the sensation. He can conjure up a number of things he’d like to try with her, stockings or no. Things that start where they end, held up with silk ribbons, pale bare thighs and her hot wet cunt await him.

“I don’t know, lord husband. Can you?”

Her pertness is not all bad. Not like this, when it fires his courage rather than undermining it. He slips his hand along the arch of her neck, into her thick hair, and draws her in to brush his lips over hers once more. “You’ll think of some way to remind me if not.”


End file.
